Father
by FaithHopeLove
Summary: A postep for 'Ripped'. 'I've ben waiting for years to hear these words, but now that I am hearing them, I want to die.'


**AN: **Just a warning that this story- as do most of my stories- contains a lot of Catholicism/prayer. If that's going to offend you, please stop reading now.

* * *

**Alice's Restaurant**

**Queens, New York**

**Kathy Stabler's POV**

I walk into the restaurant that holds so many family memories, it hurts me just to move within its vicinity. When I lay eyes on the man that made my life both heaven and hell for twenty years, I wonder if I can find the willpower to keep moving in this place which has been so sacred to my family.

He smiles softly at me, and I want to scream. I fell for that smile as a teenager. He was Elliot Stabler- handsome, Catholic, masculine. What girl in our school _didn't _have a crush on him? That smile captured and still captures my heart.

I find myself softly smiling back- because I do love this man. Truly, I do- and as long as the sun continues to rise and set, as long as life itself exists, I will.

I just can't handle living with his rage.

"Hi, Elliot." I greet him, slowly sitting down.

"Hey, Kathy. Thanks for meeting me here."

I smile, and then inquire as to why he wanted to meet me here.

"Kathy…I invited you to meet me here because I want to tell you something. I know you hated that I was angry all the time when we were married- and I don't blame you. I really don't. Please…Kathy…of everyone I have wronged in my anger, you're the one who deserves to hear an apology from me the most. I guess when we were married, I was too stupid to see that."

My throat tightens as he says this. I've been waiting to hear these words since the day I walked out the door, but now that I'm hearing them I want to die. I want to fall into my former husband's strong arms and tell him that I forgive him. That he's not a stupid man.

But my voice won't find itself. My voice won't intercede, because I know he needs to finish what he's saying.

"The reason I've been so angry all these years…my father beat me, Kath. Whenever I cried. He'd take off his belt and…God, I can still hear it…I can still hear him taking it off…I can still hear the swish before it hit me…he called me a failure…called me weak. Called me so many things. I just wanted it to stop, and I figured if I never talked about it…"

I can feel the tears burning in my eyes, ripping at my soul. I want to reach out, touch him, soothe him as tears fill his own eyes.

"I'm sorry I never opened up to you, Kathy."

"Elliot…" I say his name softly, gently, listening to it's sweet sound. His name means 'close to God'…a fitting name. "I'm sorry…"

There's so much we both have to be sorry for. I'm sorry for every time I questioned his parental ability with our children, sorry for every time I didn't reach out and touch him, sorry for all the things I never said. I know he's sorry for the same thing- and this is our silent understanding between each other. Our common ground; our mutual respect.

"You don't have to be sorry, Kathy." He says, the pain in his beautiful eyes stabbing a knife into my heart, "You deserved so much more in a man than I gave you. You deserved a man who would love you, talk to you, touch you…a patient, loving, understanding, and slow-to-anger man. I didn't give you that."

I look at him, and find my voice; find my strength for the first time since I've walked into this place.

"No." I say quietly, but firmly, "I do have to be sorry, Ell. I took away your children. I walked away. You deserved a wife you could open up to. A wife who would understand your rage. You did it because you loved me, Elliot. I can see that now."

"Loved?" He whispers, his eyes still piercing me, "_Loved?_ Kathy…if you think I _loved_ you only once upon a time, you're wrong. I love you to this day."

I close my eyes, a single tear falling down my cheek as I do. He forgets who we are- ex-husband, ex-wife, sitting in the restaurant where he proposed after I told him I was pregnant, where we took our children for dinner, where we escaped from the house, two desperate parents needing a break- and gently wipes away my tear.

Slowly, I open my eyes and say what I know must be said.

"You're not a failure, Ell. You're not weak. Every day, you fight for justice…every day; you shield people from depravity, and take it onto yourself. Every day, you're selfless…you gave up your own joy so other people…so victims of rape, or abuse, or abandonment, could have just a shot at finding it again, along with closure. And, God, I love you for it."

I take a deep breath, and then stare at him.

"But that's not the only reason why I love you. I love you because when I was pregnant, you never walked away. You stood with me- loved me…through it all. You went through the things you went through, yet you still managed to love and raise four children. A weak man…a failure…those are the boys that walk away. The strong men…the heroes…are the men who stay."

These words flow from me with such force and truth that even I am shocked. I do love this man, and if I could change things, fix our marriage, I would. But I can't live with his rage. If he could try to control his anger, I would be running back home into his arms.

But that won't happen. I tell myself that every day to keep myself from doing what I want. I don't want to hurt anymore. I can't hurt anymore, because my heart can only take so much more before it will shatter.

"I talked to Father Joe this morning, Kathy," He says to me, "And to a psychiatrist last night. I'm going to get some help…I'm trying to control my anger. I know it's going to take a while, I know that it's going to be a process."

God, no, Elliot, don't do this. Don't. I can't. I won't.

"But I think I could do it…can do it…if you're with me."

He takes my hand between his own, kneeling in front of me.

"Let's try it, baby. One more time."

Elliot…no…you're not…you can't…

I look around. This restaurant hasn't changed at all in twenty-one years. I realize that this is the very table that we sat at twenty-one years ago, and I lower my eyes to meet his. He's looking at me the same way he did the last time he proposed. I don't want to do this…shit…maybe I do want to. I don't know.

I'm lying to myself. Hell, yes. I want to.

"Yes." I whisper.

He stands up, and I do, too. We fall into a passionate embrace, and I remember exactly why I loved this man for more than half of my life. The safest, most beautiful place in the world is in his arms.

"Why are you willing to give me a second chance?" He whispers to me- joy, wonder, and curiosity in his voice as he stares into my eyes.

I burst into a smile- and into tears- and whisper the clichéd but true answer to my husband.

"Because of the way you're looking at me right now."

* * *

**Our Lady of the Ascension Parish**

**Queens, New York**

**Elliot Stabler's POV**

I pace momentarily on the front steps of a parish that has given me renewed faith, hope, and joy many times over. I know that God is indeed present in this place- present everywhere, but especially in this sacred building- but I'm scared to face him.

I sit on the church steps, and silently pray the prayer I've been praying since I was a small child.

Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us of our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.

Our Father…our Father…our **Father**… 

Every day I do my best to be a good father to my children. It's just what I expect from myself. As a father, I don't want my children to be afraid of me. I want their respect, and I want their love.

If there was one thing I was taught over and over again in Catechism, it was that God, the ultimate Father, wants to call us his own. He doesn't want our fear- just our respect, and our love.

With that thought in my mind, I walk into the church, bless myself with holy water, walk to a pew, genuflect, and pull down a kneeler. I've done these movements routinely since adolescence, but each one still carries a feeling of divinity to me.

I'm alone in this building, alone with my Father. I bow my head in prayer, and quietly pour out my soul.

I thank Him for giving me the greatest gift he could give me on this earth- my wife, and my children. I know with Kathy, with Maureen, Kathleen, Dickie, and Elizabeth…I can get through this. They are my reminder of the fact that I am loved.

I ask Him for guidance. I've never known a loving, compassionate father who tries to model after God's example. I pray with every fiber of my being to the Lord that he will grant me his compassion, his love. I pray to God that I can find the strength to model after him instead of my own father.

Alone, on a kneeler, praying alone in a church, I allow myself to fully remember. The physical pain, the emotional trauma, all the times I refused to cry, even when I should have. I allow myself to forget for the time that I am a grown man in my early forties, husband to my wife, and father to my children.

I allow myself to let go of what I've held onto for years.

I rest my head against the top of the pew and weep. Sob. I allow myself to cry out the broken, wounded sobs that I've held within me for years. I cry for all the years I spent in fear as a child. I cry for all the years I spent in anger as an adult. I cry for the pain I've caused my family and friends because of my anger.

I sob until all the fear and pain I have within me has been drained from my soul, and then I cry from relief, even a little joy.

Because I know that my Father- God Almighty- is holding me. I'm crying in my father's arms, and I know that I'm safe. No pain, no beating, will follow after. Finally, finally, I know what it means to have a father. I finally know what it means to have a man in my life who is willing to say 'Hey? You see that guy over there…yeah, right there…that's my son. Isn't he awesome?'

I'm not doomed to raise my children the way I was raised; I know that now. I'm not doomed to take my rage out in any form or way on both them and my wife. The five people who I go home to are God's greatest examples of his love for me, and the thought of hurting them makes me want to die. I know I have- and I know that I need to make it right.

I've taken my wife for granted, and I pray forgiveness for that every day. I've lived my life in rage, and I hate that about myself. But time goes on, and people change, and I know that it's time to let go.

Rising, I put back the kneeler, and walk out of the church, crossing myself, my rage left in God's open, loving hands.

I have my life to live- without my rage- and some people I can't wait to share it with. Through the grace of God, who has given me a second chance, I can go home, and love my wife the way it was intended for a man to love his wife, love my children the way a father is supposed to love his children.

Surely my Father will guide me in that.


End file.
